


Our Hands Are Tied

by UniverseOnHerShoulders



Series: Prompt Fills [33]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/F, Memory Loss, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-07-27 14:53:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16221398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniverseOnHerShoulders/pseuds/UniverseOnHerShoulders
Summary: An immortal and a Time Lady walk into a bar.





	Our Hands Are Tied

**Author's Note:**

> From the prompt:
> 
> _13 and Clara meet again while they're both trying to save some alien planet, but 13 is in Deep Cover™️ for whatever reason so pretends not to recognise Clara, and Clara knows it's the Doctor but thinks she still doesn’t remember her, but they're both massive dorks so eventually let slip that they know each other._

The drink appears beside Clara as if by magic. Her head is propped above the bar on her hands, her gaze on the scarred marble beneath her elbows, so it takes a moment to register that the drink was being held by a person – or at least a _thing_ , anyway – and that she should possibly do as her mother taught her all those many, many centuries ago and thank them. She looks up with reluctance and at once recoils as though she’s been slapped, because she’d know those eyes anywhere, and know the way that the lingering smell of stardust and artron energy clings to that coat – it’s not a coat she recognises, but nor is the face. The face doesn’t matter, the gender doesn’t matter, the clothes don’t matter. What matters is that she knows this person, knows this alien, and yet… she feels her hope die as she looks into those familiar eyes and feels her heart break for the thousandth time.

The Doctor is looking across at her with blank incomprehension; there is no spark of recognition burning in her gaze. There is an expression of confusion, born indubitably of Clara’s extreme reaction upon seeing her face, but she swiftly rearranges her features into a beatific smile and asks, in a broad Yorkshire burr, “you alright?” 

“Yeah,” Clara mutters at once, embarrassed to have embarrassed herself, and she smooths her hair down for the sake of having something to do. “Yeah, fine, sorry. You… you look like someone I know. Knew. Cheers for the drink.” 

“The drink comes with conditions,” the Time Lady says, plonking herself down on a stool beside Clara with a cheerful lack of concern for Clara’s general air of ‘leave me alone’. “Because you look upset, and I’ve made it my mission to help people who look upset.”

“Have you considered sometimes they don’t want your help?” Clara mutters sourly, not relishing spending any extended period of time with this stranger-but-not-a-stranger who doesn’t recognise her. “Because… that.” 

“Hey!” the Doctor elbows her playfully in the side in a way that her previous incarnation would have found horrifyingly chipper. “That’s not the spirit! Help is always good. Especially when people are sad.” 

“I’m not sad.”

“So why do you look it?” 

This version of the Doctor has not, at least, acquired any more tact than her predecessor. Clara bites back a bitter yelp of mirth in response to this fact, putting her head back in her hands and studiously ignoring the drink beside her. 

“Because I’m tired,” she says simply, abruptly lifting her head and folding her arms across her chest in a bid to alleviate the near-physical pain of the Doctor’s blind lack of recognition. “I’m tired of… whatever this is.” 

“Whatever what is?” 

“My miserable excuse for an existence,” she mumbles, gesturing vaguely with one hand. “Just… on and on and on it goes, never getting ill, never getting injured, never dying.” 

“Immortal?” 

“However did you guess?” Clara shoots back, voice dripping with sarcasm. “What’s the drink even for?” 

“I told you. I provide help when people need it. And you look like you need a drink, and a friend,” there’s a brief pause, then she adds shyly: “Plus, you’re cute.”

“Cute?” Clara’s attention snaps back to the Gallifreyan then, eyeing her with incredulity. “Did you just say that?”

“Yeah, why?” the Doctor looks suddenly panicked. “You’re not one of those homophobic types, are you? Because if so, I’m urm… I’m armed, and dangerous.” She adopts a terrible version of one of the taekwondo stances Clara taught her a lifetime ago, and something about the serious look on her face is so endearing that Clara feels her irritation wane.

“No, I’m not,” she says kindly, deciding to play the game. If the Doctor doesn’t know her and wants to help her, why not let her? If flirting would help, why not flirt a little? It’s been such a long time since Clara allowed herself to be interested in anyone, but she vaguely recalls the mechanics of it. Besides, she could just pretend that the woman before her is _him._ Well. She _is_ him, but the personality and the face are all wrong and Clara can’t quite marry the two identities together. How had her serious Scottish Time Lord given way to the exuberant woman sat beside her?

“Good,” the smile returns to the Doctor’s face, and that’s almost enough to alleviate some of the pain Clara feels. It’s a warm smile, wide and genuine, and she always prayed the Doctor would one day regain the ability to smile like that – like the universe was new and fresh, and like the wonders contained within it would never cease. It’s taken forgetting her for the Time Lady to smile like that, and Clara tries not to let her own grin waver. “Because you are really very pretty, and I’d like to sit and chat to you.”

“I suppose I could make time before I move on,” Clara muses, and then chuckles at her own joke. Seeing the Doctor’s eyebrows raise in confusion, she adds: “That’s… never mind.” 

“Where are you moving on to?”

“Anywhere. Anywhen. Wherever my ship takes me.” 

“That sounds ideal,” the Doctor laughs. “Clara, you sound like my kind of woman.”

It takes them a moment to notice the tiny, two-syllable word that has slipped from the Time Lady’s mouth. Clara frowns, her brow furrowing as she thinks back over the conversation, and then says slowly: 

“I never told you my name.” 

“I… you must’ve done.” 

“No,” Clara shakes her head, increasingly certain. “I didn’t.”

“I…” 

She isn’t stupid. She knows what this means, and without warning she punches the woman beside her lightly in the side. “You _arse._ You complete _idiot,_ how could you do this to me? _”_

“Clara-”

She can’t help it – she bursts into tears. Loud, shuddering sobs tear through her as she weeps, unable to comprehend what she now knows, and she is too caught up in her emotions to feel embarrassed about crying in public.

“Clara,” the Doctor says again, leaning forward and wrapping her arms around her companion. “I’m sorry, I’ve been undercover, I couldn’t-” 

“How long?” Clara asks through her tears, needing to know. “How long have you remembered me?” 

“Does it matter?” 

“Yes, it damn well matters.” 

“Three months, two weeks, six days, and four hours.”

“And in those three months, two weeks, six days, and four hours, did you ever think about coming and finding me? Did you ever think about un-breaking my heart? Did you ever think about dropping me a letter, or an email, or a phone call, just to let me know I wasn’t dead to you?”

“Clara, things happened! Missy died and I had to sort out her funeral; I’d just regenerated and in case you hadn’t noticed, it’s been a bit of a big change; I had things to deal with back in the UK and people to see-”

“And none of those people were me?” 

“I wanted to be the best version of me I could be before I came and found you,” the Doctor confesses in a rush. “OK? I’m sorry, but that’s the truth.” 

Clara blinks, wrong-footed by this information, then swallows. “Well,” she says shakily. “I suppose you’re here now, and that’s what counts.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to submit a request for a drabble, you can do so [here.](http://universe-on-her-shoulders.tumblr.com/ask)


End file.
